


holding on to you holding on to me

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Season 8, finale fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place right after the s8 finale. Dean takes care of Sam. Lots of angst and fluff and kisses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holding on to you holding on to me

The drive home went relatively well— Dean drove so fast he almost broke the sound barrier, but there was no one around to arrest them or complain, so it was okay.

Well, moderately okay. Dean pretended not to notice the multiple times Sam ducked away to wipe back tears that continued to fall. He knew the kid wasn’t okay, that no stupid little speech was going to magically fix all the hurt that Sam was feeling. He had meant everything he had said, though. No doubt about it.

God, Dean felt so  _stupid_. He hadn’t noticed Sam bottling all of this up. He hadn’t seen this coming, he’d failed at job numero uno. He used to brag about his “Sam-senses”, where had they gone? Looking back, it was pretty obvious that the kid was an absolute mess. And he had been reaching out for Dean time after time, but Dean hadn’t noticed the outstretched hand. He wanted to kick himself.

 

It seemed like one almost-suicide fixed up all of his intuitions, however, because Dean was hyper-aware of every shift of Sam’s body behind him, every covered-up sniff and twitch of pain. Not only was Sam emotionally in a really, really bad place, but those stupid fucking trials must be messing with him, too. These thoughts only caused Dean to drive faster, which he realized in hindsight wouldn’t help Sam much if they were both dead because of a grisly accident.

It took Dean a moment to realize he had stopped, to realize the door in front of him illuminated by headlights was the Bunker door. They were home.

Reluctantly, he turned off the engine, but froze, glued to his seat. Sam made no sounds or movements next to him.

_I have no fucking idea what to do now._

Should he just take Sam to bed? Patch up the wounds he has, and make him go to sleep? Will Sam want to talk? Does Sam still feel suicidal? What if he woke up to a bang, and found Sam had-

“I’m pretty sure you can get out now,” Sam said, voice soft and full of cracks and stops. But it was still a good sign that he was talking instead of grimacing in pain, and cracking jokes at that, however minimal.

Dean managed to get out some sound of agreement before opening the door. In the tense silence, the squeak of the Impala’s door was grating on his ears.

“Uh,” Sam began before Dean could get out, “Could you also, um, help me inside once you’re done with that?” His voice had decreased in volume throughout the short sentence, and Dean saw he was now leaning against his own door. As in, the kid can’t even stay upright right now.

Worry escalating ever further, Dean got out and practically sprinted over to Sam’s side. Sam’s hand shook as it reached for Dean’s arm, and Dean shook it off.

“Let me do all the work, dude,” Dean told Sam, and pulled him out of the car. The fact that Sam made no complaint to this only renewed Dean’s energy to patch Sam up.He wrapped an arm securely around Sam’s shoulders and guided Sam’s arm around his waist, and in tandem they walked (more like plodded) their way over to the door. Dean leaned Sam against one of the doors, and then fumbled with the keys for what felt like an eternity before they finally unlocked. He resumed his hold on Sam and led them all the way down to Sam’s room, which was just past Dean’s. It still felt like a mile-long walk, though.

He carefully set down Sam on the bed, who gratefully sank into it, leaning precariously one way and then the other. Dean made a concerned sound with his tongue and then dragged Sam over so he was resting against the headboard, and grabbed some pillows and fluffed them before putting them behind Sam.

Sam scoffed, but closed his eyes and remained there. Dean stood by his side, unsure of what to do. Sam looked terrible, covered in blood, sweat, dirt, and tears. Not to mention that Dean could totally see the weight loss on Sam’s face— these trials had kicked the kid when he was down and then again for good measure.

“You need to get cleaned up,” Dean said to himself more than to Sam. “I’m gonna grab the med kit and stuff.”

Sam nodded, eyes still closed.

Dean came and went as fast as he could and dropped his pack on the floor beside the bed, rifling through it in silence for a moment. It was then that Sam moaned quietly, but the pain in his voice was louder than sirens.

“Shit, Sammy, what is it? Are you okay?” Dean asked, abandoning the kit and sitting on the bed next to Sam. He took a hand to Sam’s face and gingerly swept his hair back before palming his cheek. They hadn’t been so close in a while, but Dean couldn’t hold back.

“No… it’s just… my arm,” Sam managed, holding out his arm, tight with tension, to Dean.

Before Dean could do anything, Sam sighed and his arm dropped in Dean’s lap. Sam leaned against Dean and shivered once before falling silent. Dean could feel him breathing and tried to relax.

“Sammy?” he whispered tentatively.

“Yeah, I just…” Sam trailed off, voice slurring and murmured.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” Dean responded, and shifted so Sam was closer. Sam’s head fit in the crook of his neck and he felt one of Sam’s arms weakly slide around him and latch on to him. Sam’s hair dusted against his chin and he felt his little brother’s shaky breathing against his skin. Dean held Sam close, and kissed the top of his head, his hands running soothing circles on Sam’s back.

Dean didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but the fact that Sam was still hurt niggled incessantly in the back of his mind.

“Sam?” he asked, tenderly prying Sam’s fingers from his shirt, “I gotta get up so I can patch you up, okay?”

Sam nodded, sighing, and moved away, leaning against the pillows once again. Dean felt the warmth of Sam leave him.

Reluctantly, Dean slid off the bed and grabbed a washcloth. Luckily, the bathroom sink wasn’t that far, and he had it doused in warm water and wiping the dirt away from Sam’s forehead in under a minute. He was now leaning over Sam, sliding the cloth down his cheeks gently when Sam winced. A single drop of blood welled to the surface where Dean had been cleaning away the dirt.

“Shit, you’re gonna need stitches there,” Dean worried, and worked around it, cleaning the rest of his face. Later, he had the suture kit out, and held his tongue carefully between his teeth as he slid the needle through Sam’s skin. Sam’s eyes opened, and he just watched Dean, emotions carefully hidden below the surface. Their faces were inches away, and Dean found himself watching Sam, unmoving, stitches finished.

“Uh, my arm still needs some…” Sam trailed off, swallowing.

It took Dean a moment to process the words, and then he moved backward and off of Sam. “Right. Sorry. I’ll do that.”

The silence felt awkward, but when Dean unwrapped Sam’s hand all pretenses were forgotten when Sam cried outright, holding the hand to his chest and head turned away, eyes scrunched tight and watering at the edges.

“Sammy, fuck, I’m sorry, but I gotta get at that hand.”

Taking in a ragged breath, Sam nodded and held his tremulous hand out to Dean, who took it as if it were made of porcelain. Dean would love to forget the pained sounds Sam made as he stitched and sewed, empathetically wincing with each pierce of skin.

Finished with every physical ailment Dean could help with, he didn’t want to leave. After this, Sam would sleep, and in the morning they’d have to talk. He’d have to try to get through to Sam. After this moment, Sam wouldn’t be okay again, and Dean would eye every gun near Sam with worry for a long time to come. A lot of shit had rained down on them, and it would take them a hell of a long time to get through this, if ever. Dean didn’t know if he could ever make Sam smile again, if Sam would ever not want to leave or if Sam would ever truly believe that Dean loved him. Because he did, more than anything.

But at least they were going through this together.

Dean was shaken out of his thoughts Sam’s hand fisted tightly in his shirt, pulling him closer. His eyes were bright with unshed tears and stared at Dean with grief and urgency. Dean couldn’t find his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Sam managed, voice shaking and sounding miserable. “Dean, please, I’m so sorry. I am. You gotta forgive me. I’m begging you. I didn’t mean for you to have to do this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sor—”

“Hey, hey hey!” Dean interrupted, aghast. “Listen to me, baby brother. Okay? You got nothing to be sorry for. At all. Zilch. I don’t care if you’re apologizing for crap from the past, because you have literally redeemed yourself for anything you ever did over a thousand times. Even with these trials. And don’t apologize for how you felt, either, because I am having none of that. I’m the one who should be sorry. I should be saying that. I should’ve known how you were feeling, but I was too caught up in dumb self-pity that I was ignoring you. I was a shitty older brother. Hell, I still am. Don’t apologize for me taking care of you, because that is literally all I am, period. I am nothing without you, Sammy. At all. Don’t apologize for anything, because you don’t need to. You’re forgiven. You already were. You always have been. Can’t you see that?  _I fucking love you, Sammy!_ ”

The last line was almost spat at Sam in desperation. Dean was panicking, he didn’t know how to get through to Sam, how to unearth that little boy that he had spent so long with. He was caught up in the moment, didn’t notice how their noses were now only centimeters apart.

A tear fell from Sam’s eye. He smiled, slowly, tentatively, but it was still there. His hand didn’t leave Dean’s shirt. “I, uh,” he made a sound in his throat, had to blink and stop himself from crying. “I love you too. Always have,”

Dean laughed, a kind of wild sound. Suddenly, everything seemed possible again— they could get past this. Easily. Together. Smiling, one of his hands cupped the back of Sam’s head and he kissed him, hard and passionately and half-mad with relief. Sam’s hand left his shirt in surprise but soon after both of his arms were around Dean, pulling him closer. Dean straddled Sam and they broke apart, for less than a second, before Dean was kissing Sam again, opening his mouth with his tongue and letting all of his love come out in a single movement. The last kiss was long, and slow, and passionate, and afterward Dean pressed his forehead to Sam’s. They looked at each other and an understanding passed between them.

“We can do this?” Dean said, half a statement and half a question.

Sam laughed, the most beautiful sound in the world. “Yeah. We can do this.”


End file.
